Black Betty's Prize
by vigirl
Summary: Updated! “The more he focused on his work, the less time he had to think of her and what he was still too afraid to do.” – GS -Ch. 3
1. Default Chapter

Title:  Black Betty's Prize

Author: Alison Nixon 

Rating: PG 

Category:  Vignette 

Spoilers: Play with Fire

Summary:  "The more he focused on his work, the less time he had to think of her and what he was still too afraid to do." – G/S  

Disclaimer: None of the CSI characters are mine.  They belong to Anthony Zuiker, CBS, et al.

Feedback: Certainly!  Let me know what you think

Archival:  Other than my own site (which will be up soon) or , please ask first.  Email me at anixon72@hotmail.com.

Author's Notes:  Well, this started as a quick vignette, but I think I may have to keep going with it for a couple chapters or so.  The idea came to me as a neat way to explore one potential ramification of Play with Fire…It comes at this from a slightly different angle, which might make the fic seem a bit odd, but you know how it is… ;-)  

******

"Gil Grissom, I presume."

Although the voice on the line struck a chord in his memory, Grissom could not help his frown. Leaning both elbows on his glass-topped desk, he rubbed at his forehead roughly, irritated by his lapse.  Somehow, he had forgotten to reset his voice mail to screen his calls. Lately, the system's mechanical voice often declared him "unavailable."  He was just being practical, he told himself; the less energy expended on useless chatter, the better.  The more he focused on his work, the less time he had to think of her and what he was still too afraid to do.  She had read the situation well that night—by the time he figured things out, it would probably be too late.  

"This is Grissom, yes."  

He tapped a finger against the sheaf of paper in front of him as he spoke, trying to refocus his thoughts.  The fact that the sound failed to register in his reconstructed ear didn't worry him too much; it had only been a couple of months since the first surgery.  Dr. Roth had warned him not to expect a dramatic recovery of his hearing right away.  The sound would return as gradually as it had disappeared, apparently. One of the body's little mysteries, she had quipped during his last check up, smiling at him.  If she had hoped to lighten his grim expression, she had no doubt been disappointed.   

"Gil, it's Hal. Hal Monroe.  Don't tell me you've forgotten me already."

Pushing back from his desk, Grissom curved his broad back into his chair and managed a small smile.  

"Black Betty beat my Iago, Hal--I could never forget you.  Not that it was a fair contest, of course.  Black Betty did false start."

Despite their many years of acquaintance, Hal's guffaws never failed to catch Grissom by surprise.  The man himself was tall and reedy, entirely in line with the classic proportions of an intelligent ectomorph.   And yet, laughter burst forth from his cadaverous frame in wonderfully broad, hearty shouts of sound. 

"She did no such thing. Such slander, I'm shocked."  

Still smiling, Hal picked up the item he had been eyeing as he listened to his friend, weighing it in one hand.  The crystal paperweight, expertly cut to resemble a male Gromphadorhina portentosa or Madagascar Hissing Cockroach, had been awarded to his little lady for last year's first-place finish.  He sighed happily as he fingered its large horns, an impressive feature which Betty, as a female of the species, lacked.  The horns were typically used for defensive purposes, but for some reason, when his Betty required a little extra race-day motivation, dropping the big guy into her tank revved her right up.  Maybe it's time to get her a man, Hal noted thoughtfully. His hyper-active mind threatened to get lost on a road that only a few people could appreciate (or stomach), but Grissom's snort reminded him of the need to defend his roach.

"Hey, the instant replay cleared her, Gil.  We all saw it. You can't argue with the videotape."

Grissom's eyes turned smug.  "Please. Even the National Football League can't agree on calls when instant replay gets involved.  It's unreliable human technology being interpreted by unreliable human eyes, Hal."  He smiled again.  "My Shakespearean was robbed."

Guffawing once more, his colleague shook his head.  Gil would probably keep saying that until next year's race, right up to the exact moment Black Betty left all her competitors choking in her dust yet again.  

"So did you call me just to gloat, or is this a professional consult?"

With long, tapering fingers, the other man put down his prize to the left of the sheet of paper that had prompted his call.   

"Well, both, I think."

Grissom repositioned the phone's earpiece more closely against the side of his face.  "I don't follow you."

"I have in front of me the absolutely stellar resume of one Sara Sidle from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. The woman seems to have it all, Gil.  I'd hire her in a heartbeat."  He cocked his head.  "My only question is…why in the world would you be letting her go?"

The words hit Grissom like the rush of an icy river, bracing, relentless, bitter.

"I mean," Hal continued, sounding puzzled, "is there something she's not telling me about her skills or her performance?  Is she the colleague most likely to bring a semi-automatic to work, or what?  Why aren't you making sure she stays right where she is, if she's as good as she seems to be?"

Grissom forced himself to speak.  "I…No, Hal, she's not misrepresenting herself." His tongue moved in his mouth, curling upward. "She's probably underestimating her skills, actually.  The problem is just…."  

"Just what?"

"Poor choice of words.  It's not a problem.  Sara just needs… a bigger arena, a broader field. Fresh challenges.  She's been here three years, and--" 

He heard himself and stopped short.  He could usually lie better than this.  

"Look, Hal, I'll be straight with you.  This is the first I'm hearing of this."  

The other man made a noise under his breath that Grissom took as a rebuke. 

"I had no idea she was planning to leave. I suppose that says a lot about my supervisory skills, doesn't it?"

Hal nibbled at the inside of his cheek, trying to choose his words with care.  

"Oh. I see. Huh."  He thought for a moment.  "Well…do you two have a good working relationship?  Maybe…maybe it makes sense to talk to her about why she's applying for positions.  Don't get me wrong," he added hastily, "this would be a great opportunity for her.  It's a Physical Scientist position. With her education and prior experience, she'd start out as a GS-12 making nearly $70,000 a year. She'd be managing forensic evidence coming from crime labs and FBI field offices all over the country, advising law enforcement and prosecutors about evidence, and supervising a whole team of junior scientists and technicians…"  

Hal lifted one bony shoulder in a shrug.  "Basically, Gil, I plan to recommend her to the hiring committee here. If you're prepared to let her go." He paused. "I just thought I'd at least give you a heads up before I steal her away." 

His mouth suddenly dry, Grissom let his eyes drift slowly around the office, searching for comfort in familiar things. Nearly every spare inch of the space had been colonized with his jars, his bugs, his peculiar specimens…He didn't like to admit it, but it would be hard to disappear without cake in the break room with all these things to dismantle and pack away.   

Twenty-four by sixteen by thirty-six...

He had a good idea of what those dimensions could hold, what they did hold.  When she wasn't looking, he often snuck glimpses into the one private space she had at the lab, peering into her locker through the angle between arm and thigh when one hand lay near her knee, through the semicircle formed from jaw to neck to shoulder, even through the shifting shapes taken by the curves in her hair as it framed her head. 

Five minutes.  Ten, if she hesitated as she packed or took the time to give away anything that she would no longer need, or want. 

Ten minutes.  

Ten.

"Gil?"

He blinked.

"So, what do you want to do here?"

The river's cold seemed suddenly, inexplicably warm now and as it began to overtake him, the force of it was almost frightening.  His mother had always said a little fear could be a good thing, if you used it wisely. 

"Let me…get back to you."

There was a beat of silence on the line.

"I'll get back to you, Hal, when I know what we're doing." 

By the time his colleague secured the piece of paper in his hand underneath Black Betty's prize, Grissom had already stood up and set out in search of his.   

TBC…


	2. Chapter Two

Black Betty's Prize

Author: Alison Nixon / VIgirl

Chapter Two

Author's Note: So sorry for the delay in getting this done.  I've been under the weather and couldn't face the prospect of Geek angst. LOL.  Thanks for continuing to read and/or review—I'll try not to take so long with the next update…

*********

Pale yellow, absurdly cheerful, one tiny envelope after another marched down the screen.  Ordinarily a full inbox would be a good thing, but somehow, spammy subject lines like "You have to see the New Girl Work it" and "Barely Legal" left Sara unmoved.  Shaking her head, she eased her chair closer to the desk.  Soon, the mouse she held began blinking furiously, signaling via infrared the start of her daily ritual of clicks and deletes.  It was monotonous work, but some aspects of it did amuse her.  _So…is ssidle666 that evil twin I've been searching for all my life?  Oh wait, can't be. Where would that leave ssidle@dominatrices-delight?   _

Lips twitching ever so slightly, Sara kept working, weeding out each offender.  Her fingers flashed so quickly that a few seconds passed before she realized her mistake.  Puffing her pale cheeks with a harried breath, she clicked opened her trashcan to restore the last message she had dumped there.  As she focused on the sender's name, though, her stomach began to twist and turn.  Pressing one clenched hand against her navel, she tried for a smile, hoping her face's false emotion would fool her body.  So she felt physically ill every time the next step toward leaving arrived--so what?  It didn't mean anything.  _In fact, I wish I felt even worse._  Maybe then she could have avoided eating her way through the past couple of months.       

The little tummy stood as some sort of sad emblem of her life.  She wasn't a vain woman, but still, it stung.  The others probably figured it was part of some post-breakup binge.  But, truthfully, she hardly thought of Hank at all anymore.  It wasn't about him; it was about what he stood for.  Since the day she ended it, the most shocking thing had been the sudden return to her solitary life, her dull routine.  Not too long ago, she would have filled the void with as much work as she could get, but now… Now, instead of going in to the lab just to be near the man she wanted bud did not know how to approach, she had slouched at home reading, watching, waiting, and inevitably, pushing food into her face out of sheer nerves.  _Story of my life…Hank had that other woman waiting in line. The only things waiting for me were ten extra pounds and Grissom blowing me off.   _

She ground her fist deeper into her stomach.     

_I have to face it. He's decided not to decide.  So…fine, I have my answer and I move on.  _

For perhaps the hundredth time since she had decided to leave, she tried to say the words as if she meant them.  _This is a good thing.  You'll see.  _

_You'll see. _

Her fingers jerked as she bit down on her lip.  With effort, she forced herself to scroll down the page until she could see the first line of text.  

_June 30, 2003___

_Re: Physical Scientist (GS 9/13) - Job Ann. No: 20152-LB_

_Dear Ms. Sidle:_

_Thank you for your interest in the Physical Scientist position at the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Your application has been received and it is complete.  As your application progresses through our personnel system, we will update you regarding its status.  As the job announcement indicated, the FBI Lab would like the candidate selected to begin work by August 15th.  Therefore, applicants will be notified very shortly of our decision._

_If you have any questions, you may call 1-800-FBI-JOBS.  Please reference the Job Announcement Number if you do._

_Sincerely,_

_Elizabeth Page _

_Recruitment Specialist_

_Office of Personnel Management _

Sara's shoulders listed forward, disappointment mingling with a sense of relief.  She had known it was too early for them to have made a decision, so why had she been so nervous?  _I do want this—who wouldn't?_  More money, more responsibility, more respect… More of everything, it seemed—everything but the one thing that mattered most. No matter how many times she weighed the pros and cons, staring at the two-column list written in short hand that she kept in her date book, the scales stayed stubbornly, impossibly unbalanced…in his favor.  

If she stayed, the happy ending might still come.  If she left, the very instant she pulled out of his orbit would signal the end of everything.  Between her anxious pride and his suspended animation, there could be no return.

Her mind stumbled over this, tripping over the tangled mess their feelings had become.  She felt her eyes drift down to the clock that blinked at one of the corners of her screen.  It was just after seven in the morning.  Time to go home.  She had not caught so much as a glimpse of him after he handed out the assignments at the start of shift; it was hard to tell if he was avoiding her or not.  Sara exhaled, her shoulders slipping still further before she turned her attention back to her mail.  Some housekeeping was in order: job-related things to be forwarded to her Jobs folder, junk mail to be scanned and discarded, updating her Contacts with the Page woman's email…

She felt him before she heard him, almost as if her senses had pricked at some unseen shift in the stillness of the room.  

She turned her head.

He stood in the doorway, watching her.  Sara looked instinctively for the folder or piece of paperwork in his hands.  Ever since the night of his refusal, he never seemed to approach her unless he held something in his hands, some artifact to mark the parameters of their interaction and keep any personal conversation to a minimum.  A clever strategy, but if he thought he had fooled her with it, he was mistaken.

"Yes?"

His eyes slid away, dropping to some point near her feet.  He hid his empty hands in his pockets.

"Busy?"

"I'm just finishing up.  I was about to leave."   When he did not continue, she couldn't quite keep the tinge of impatience from her voice.  "Did you need something?"

The tip of his tongue touched his lips; if she hadn't known better, she would said he smiled, despite the way he kept his eyes trained on the floor.  

"Doesn't everyone?"

Grissom took a breath.  If this was going to work, he would have to look at her.  He could see her watching him, but with a strange remoteness, as if from a great distance.  After a moment, she turned her face to the screen and placed one hand back on the mouse.  She spoke without even looking his way.

"I used to think so."

She did not see the second, rare smile. 

"Used to?"

"Then I met you."

Grissom blanched, the skin across his face growing taut, as if drawn back by strings.  Sara looked up.  When their eyes met, the charge hit her like a storm, trapping the breath in her throat.  After the last time, she had promised herself that she would never bring that look to his eyes again. He was not a machine; he did have feelings.

"I…I'm sorry, Grissom. I—"   

Head bent, she closed her eyes.  When they opened again, she could only repeat herself in the hope she would be believed.  "I'm sorry I said that."

His voice, sounding hollow despite its lightness, came quickly.

"Forget it."  He managed a tight shrug.  "I already have."

What else could she do but look away?  

He rushed ahead, grasping blindly for words he knew he should leave unsaid.

"I won't keep you.  I just wanted to let you know…I just got a call from a colleague of mine at the FBI Lab.  He was kind enough to tell that you've applied for a position there."  The protest rose in her face, but he cut her off.  "Call it a professional courtesy—he's a friend."  

He paused, letting the silence linger just long enough for his emphasis of that last word to settle in her mind.     

"As a supervisor, of course, I would hate to lose a CSI with your skills.  But if that's what you want…"  

"If that's what I want?"  She stood up abruptly, sending the chair skittering backward on its wheels and folding her arms against her body.  "If that's what I want."

"Yes."

"You…"

"I just came in here to see if there was…any work issue that you wanted to discuss, any aspect of your job here that led to this decision to leave.  I would be remiss if I didn't try to find out how to avoid this happening with anyone else on the team."

"I haven't left yet, Grissom."  The words were bitter.

"But you will."  

It had been intended as a question.  It had. 

"What…what does that mean?  You don't know what I'll do—"

Her anger should have shaken him, but it just urged him on.   

"I'll tell you what I _do_ know, Sara.  I know that you're out there looking for opportunities to leave.  Looking for opportunities that my lab can't compete with—seventy grand, supervising a team of your own, getting involved in cases all across the country.  You know the limitations here.  Given that, I can only assume that what we have to offer is no longer what you want, since you aren't even giving us a fair chance to change your mind."

"A fair chance? What--"

"_Fair would be applying to another city or state crime lab, one which has the same constraints that we do.  What is not fair is applying to the biggest and best-funded lab in the country, which might as well have no constraints at all.  The lab where you won't have to settle for less."_

The surge of adrenaline crashed the moment he saw the look in her eyes.  Without it, he could not risk waiting for her reply.  It was only as he wheeled around to leave that the logic of it struck him.  _Of course this is how it would end._  

_Of course._  

Better to look back in anger than in regret.  

Better to refuse the prize, which even if won, cannot possibly be kept.  

TBC… 


	3. Chapter Three

Title: Black Betty's Prize

Author: Alison Nixon (VIgirl)

Chapter 3/?

Disclaimers: See previous chapters

Archival: Here at fanfiction.net and also at my website, Playing with Fire -   

Please ask permission before archiving elsewhere.

Feedback: Feedback definitely welcomed--please do let me know what you think.

Author's Note: Sometimes a delay runs so long, it can't even be properly apologized for. Sigh. What can I say? It's been a tough couple of months.  Hope you can all get back into the story.  One thing I should note is that while I usually put flashbacks in italics, the flashback in this chapters is so long that I thought that italics might be distracting, so I've just bracketed that section with some funky hashmarks:  ~*~*~*  Finally, a big thank you the Playing with Fire Chat Room crew for their steady support and occasional whip-cracking as I worked on this… ;-) 

**********

Blindly, she sank, dropping until her knees struck the floor. The contact, hard and sharp, should have forced a gasp, but she made no sound--her lungs were too full of the breath she held.

She waited patiently as the seconds passed. The ache in her chest crept upward into her back and shoulders and downward to her legs, but still, she waited. Finally, at the last possible moment, the exact instant when she had no choice but to breathe, she let her hands take flight. With a Fury's passion, they dove, pursuing without thought, punishing without exception. She had made herself a promise: spare no favorites, protect no treasures--the time for holding on and holding out had long since passed_._

On another day, in another life, she might have fought this, insisting on reasons for hope. 

But all she had was this day, in this life, no matter how unwanted.   

_"Forget it.  I already have."  _

_"I haven't left yet."_

_"But you will."_

She'd always heard people say life is about taking chances. 

_People say a lot of things, most of them lies. _

She had been a big brave girl and taken a chance. And what had been her reward? Confusion. Silence. Retreat.  

Looking back, it had been foolish to stay after he said no months ago. But even then, after that bitter moment, her fantasies of a happy ending refused to leave her. Now it finally had…When he turned his back this morning and walked away, she had felt its last remnants fade like mist.  

_Loving him has turned out so well for you, hasn't it?_

It was comical, really, a page lifted from some _Sara in Wonderland_. Like Alice, she had no idea where she was or how she got there.  But still, there she was, lost in the land that love forgot. The land he forgot anyway. She might have found a way to bear it if he had only lost sight of her, or lost his way to her, but even she did not believe that. The truth, which she beat into her head again and again, was much simpler. He had chosen to forget. And worse, when she tried to remind him, in ways quiet and loud, small and large, his response had been… 

Maybe that explained the anger today, the insistence that she had committed some unpardonable offense. Hadn't he always said that was why he preferred his insects?  Like all animals, they only do what they must, what their instincts demand. People only do what they choose, which is to hurt and disappoint. Corner an animal and instinct will propel it to attack, to flee, even to change its skin, the better to hide in plain sight. He, of course, brilliant to the end, had managed all three. Even at the moment when he should have been thrown on the defensive, he had thrown her. That took skill. That took nerve. _Hard as stone, never give an inch, never say 'don't go,' never ever say you're sorry nerve… _

Before the bile that rose in her throat could overtake her, she jerked, startled. Something burned. She looked down at her hands. The white of her palms flared red, the soft flesh brutally twisted and compressed. At some point since she had sunk to the floor, a length of rough white cotton had found its way into her fists. She had wound the cloth so tightly that its coils looked like rope.  

As she dropped the mangled cloth back to the floor, massaging one hand in the other, she wondered at her thoroughness. Closet, dresser, hamper….it was all out in the open now, every piece of clothing she owned. Just like she wanted, right? Just like her feelings. Just like his. How strange, really. All these years, she had assumed that would solve everything. Openness. His. Hers. Only she had forgotten they lived in some looking-glass world, the kind of world where the best intentions led to worst consequences.   

Such was the irony: with a little less openness, she could have stayed.  With a little less honesty, she wouldn't be forced to leave. Rationally, her mind had yet to fathom it—how the solution had created the problem.  What key experimental variable had she neglected?  What control had she missed that would have ensured the right result?  

How had she lost him?

_How? You spoke up. You went with your heart and not your head.  You screwed up.  _

_You screwed up. _

And for that mistake, he had thrown her away. Like some item he had once wanted, but no longer had any use for. This had been the thought hammering at her during the drive home, demanding a reckoning. When she made it back to her room and found her eyes drawn to the closet door she had left ajar the night before, it finally came.   

She had done this to herself.  She had been the fool for letting herself care, about things, about people, about…  

_Well, that's the trouble with the world, isn't it?_  She looked down, eyeing the mess she had made and working to see it for what it really was.  

_Follow the teacher. You've always been good at that.  _

_So, take inventory. Decide what you need and what you don't. None of it matters anyway._

_They're just things. _   

Yes, they were. Bright and alluring, to be sure, especially at the moment you dared to barter for them by leaving your trace on some mere slip of paper. Surrendering such traces carried risks, as everyone knows, but there could be no other way if you really something.  Soon enough, though, all things fall out of favor, no matter how much beauty you once attributed to them.  Soon enough, shape and contours distorted beyond recognition, they become just another reminder of useless clutter you neither want nor need.  

_"Forget it. I already have."_

Yes, there could be little doubt of that.

Her restless hands began to stir again; his words seemed to hurt more when her mind idled.  She set herself a task: find something in this chaos, anything, worth keeping. Shutting her mind to everything but that mission, she ran her fingertips over one texture after another, cotton, denim, jersey. None of these made her linger, though, so she kept searching, touching here and there until something very, very soft made her stop. Threaded loosely between her fingers, a bright piece of velvet swung gently, its silk backing sheer enough that the mid-morning light shone through it. As her dark eyes took in the brilliant color, tracing the deliberate voids left by the pattern cut into the rich fabric, she let the memories come a little closer.  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"So, what do you think?" 

Keyed up, she didn't wait for his reply.         

"You know, you can find just about anything here…books, clothes, CDs." 

 "Well, almost anything."  Her lips twitched. "Eight-tracks are still hard to come by."

The hint of smoky laughter, always a temptation, proved utterly distracting; he returned her smile without even realizing he had. Cursing himself for his lack of resolve, he hurried to wipe it from his face. She had already seen it, of course. Such was his luck.

He did realize the ridiculous position he had placed himself in—devising defenses and strategies to blunt her moves, both real and imagined. _It's ridiculous. I'm ridiculous. But what choice do I have?  No matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise, he was out of his league. They had been playing at something for weeks now; she pressed her advantage; he tried to hold the line. Though she claimed not be a sports fan, sometimes he had to wonder. How else could she know what most never grasp? _

No score is too small. Play each point as if it could be the last. Seek the momentum. Then keep it. 

He had worked it all out it in his head--every smile or laugh he let slip strengthened her hand, fueled her momentum. That was why, in this game, the best defense was not a good offense. The best defense was refusing to play.   

A brilliant strategy, if he did say so himself. If it weren't for her troublesome habit of carrying the ball right up to the line no matter what he did, it just might have worked.    

_No wonder I've always been a baseball fan._ _X's and O's and defensive schemas don't exactly play to my strengths.  _

He shook his head, willing his mind back to the sound of her voice.

"…like I was saying, Haight Street is home to what's pretty much the mother of all street fairs in this city. If you want cool and eclectic, and you don't mind a little horse-trading, _this_ is the place." 

He said nothing, but nodded, already noticing several examples of the eclectic, if not the cool, arrayed on either side of the narrow path they were now taking through the center of the fair. 

His eyes roved over the scene, which crackled with the cacophony of vendors' calls to passerby and the wild notes of live music and gradually settled on one of the smaller stalls to his left. Apparently the vendor knew his audience; peace symbol themes dominated. There were hundreds of peace signs crafted into pendants of different sizes, although they varied less in themselves than in the type of necklace from which they dangled—sterling silver chains, thin braids of leather, Guatemalan friendship bands, dog collars, and most jarring, a tangle of rosary beads. He stifled a laugh; his mother, devotee of Sunday Mass and Friday confession, would have been appalled. 

Strolling beside him, she continued. 

"…keeping in mind, of course, that it's not all that hard to haggle with hippies… Most of these guys never left the counterculture, so they only take the horse-trading thing so far. Sometimes I think they'd let people pay whatever if they would just listen to some of their memories of the sixties."  She smiled. "You know, like the day they built a draft card bonfire in Golden Gate Park, or the summer they planted alfalfa and made clothes out of hemp on some commune in Oregon."  

"I, I used to go up to the attic when I was a kid and kind of…play dress up in some of my mom's old clothes. I looked like such a little freak in those hemp caftans. My dad probably still has the pictures to prove it, too." 

Laughing a little, she turned, hoping to catch his eye. She did one better, and caught one of his rare smiles instead.  

As he ducked his head and avoided her eyes, as if to deny her the pleasure of looking at them, she made the best of she indulged in another. 

_I bet he didn't give a second's thought to what he pulled on this morning._ That was probably what made the effect so devastating. Leather jacket over his shoulder, casual shirt, short sleeved and tucked into his slacks, and best of all, his face, liberated from the black disks that too often hid his eyes from view…

_Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?_  

She started to ask, if only for the pleasure of startling him into a full-on blush, but her state of distraction led her wayward feet directly into his path. He stumbled, crashing his weight into her. Before she could apologize for causing the collision, the hand he put out to restore his balance had taken hold of her arm, midway between wrist and elbow.   

Like a jolt of static, the shock of it surged like something electric. The shock didn't emanate from the mere fact of contact; they had touched briefly, accidentally, several times before. It was the bareness, really…the wholly new, unexpected sensation of his skin on hers with no barriers in between, no protective cover. 

Her face soon lit up with a secret smile; this had to be a good omen.  The heat of the day had persuaded her to slip out of her sweater only moments before.  

He watched her, noting the way her eyes dropped to the ground just as a hint of color began brightening her skin. _She looks pleased_. Pleased with him, pleased with the day, pleased with life—who could say?  Variations on this look warmed her face often enough that he recognized it, yes, but then as now, he could not begin to unravel its meaning. He wanted to know: did she reduce every man she knew to such a state of confusion, or just him?  How did a mere slip of a girl tip the scales with a man so much older? Surely, after all, he should be the one who knew what to do. Surely he should be the one who knew what he felt—lust, or--

_I've never been in love, I have no evidence by which to judge, I know nothing for a fact.  _

_I only know what I like…looking… talking…listening. I only know that I like knowing she is somewhere close by. Somewhere she can be found._  

But even knowing that did not tell him the meaning of what he saw in her face. Sometimes, he thought she knew perfectly well--knew just how to best confound him and draw him in by hiding her intentions from his eyes. More often, however, he did the only thing he could do: he set to work. Scientist's work, which naturally involved surveying, cataloging, observing and describing, in minute detail, precisely that which confused him. The past few weeks with her had felt like a course immersion, requiring full absorption in both his subject and its study. Other men would have thought it strange, but he found the rationality of this approach comforting. He knew quite well that once he returned to the confines of his life back in Vegas, this perfect, precise survey would be all he would have left.   

He stopped short.  

_You don't know what you feel. _

_You don't even know what she feels. _

_No good can come of pretending that you do.  _

Releasing her arm as if the contact burned, he spoke with false lightness.    

"Didn't you say you were looking for something red?"

Surprised that he remembered the babble she had uttered along with her invitation, she followed his lead as he stepped closer to a stall off to their right. The constellation of spindle-like displays, each laden with more scarves than the next, had been organized by color. Truth be told, she didn't need a new scarf, but it had been the first thing that came to mind when Grissom began to demur back at the lab, mumbling evasively about the need to pack for his flight. Unfortunately for him, she had coached herself far too well to be easily deterred. 

_"Oh come on, Grissom. How long can it take you to pack? Besides, I'm just looking for a scarf—we won't even be there that long. Come on. Walk with me." _

Eventually, after she had rebutted each of his protests, protests which grew feebler as her rebuttals grew bolder, he had accepted.  And now…she snuck a look at his face. And now, before long, she would have to find a way to phrase her second invitation… 

She took a deep breath and sent one hand behind her back. Instinctively, she crossed the first two fingers of that hand, just like she used to do when she was little. 

_"You're very brave." _ 

He had said it even before he knew her name. She had stared back, weighing his sincerity. Just when she was beginning to regret coming forward, he gave her a small smile and put out his hand. In her eagerness, she didn't even think to offer him her name before she imposed further question upon him. Gracious, even then, he answered the first two queries, waiting until the third to hold up his hand. He set one condition: introductions first, questions second.  

_It's just one more question. That's all. Just…one more question. _

She could feel his eyes on her face, their familiar blue flecked with curiosity. After swallowing around the tightness in her throat, she managed to find her tongue. 

"Hey, you hit the mother lode, Grissom. Scarf heaven." She smiled, hoping to distract him from his inspection of her. "Or hell, since I now have way too many to choose from."

Grissom surveyed the terrain.  "What's the first rule of forensic investigation?" 

"Start from first principles."  A small frown wrinkled her brow. "In this case, that means what exactly?" 

"Well, what's the main root of your decision tree?"  

His eyes brightened when she frowned once more. "What kind of material are you looking for?"

_Scarf shopping as an exercise in inductive logic. God, I could so kiss him right now. _

Afraid the wild impulse would show in her face, she bit down on her lip.  

_ "I, um, haven't decided. Yet."_

"Well," he quipped, grateful to slip back into the role he found safest, "first principles in this case would relate to the intended use of the item in question. Will you be wearing it primarily for warmth, or for…"  He hesitated.  

"Female decoration?"  

Her smile broadened as she reached for one of the warmer scarves on display, a thick wool affair woven from red and cream-colored yarn. Before he could step back, she skimmed it swiftly across his cheek. He met her burst of laughter with an unkind look.   

"Warm, but not something you want wrapped around your neck unless you're in the middle of a Boston winter. Too itchy."

"Apparently," he said tartly, scratching at his face. "So, wool is out. How about this crinkled cotton…thing?"

Sara took it from him, doubtful.  "Well, I like tie-dyes and everything, but this is just…" After a moment, she shook her head.  "No." 

He replaced the offender back on the rack. "I thought you'd never seen a tie-dye you didn't like."

"You mean, like the way you've never seen a black outfit you didn't like?" She clucked her tongue. "Gil Grissom, Johnny Cash. Men in black." 

When he stared her down with mock hauteur, she coughed to cover her smile, determined not to ruin her deadpan with laughter. He kept his eyes focused on hers; she stepped in a little closer. She was the one with the plan, but when he looked at her like that, she often wondered…  

When the moment finally came, who would really seduce whom? 

They lingered there, each finding ways to prolong the moment. He knew that he should take his leave and say the goodbye he had rehearsed in his head for days now.  He knew this, but her eyes kept posing questions that he wanted to answer. It was a conspiracy, for sure, the way they fell into the usual easy rhythms--teacher-student, lecture-listen, ask-answer. Maybe that was why she listened so well as he spoke of what he knew, never looking away. She never did, even when he delved into the science of textiles, and the importance of industry tests…tests of thread strength and wrinkle resistance, color integrity and fade propensity, and most important, tests of the feel of fabric against human skin…

She never looked away.

Under such sweet inducement, he continued to talk, peppering what he knew with brainy little jokes and wry asides, hoping to make her laugh, marveling when she did. Most women looked blank and unamused when he tried to be funny. She looked…alive. Eyes alight, laughing, she wove her own brainy jokes into his seamlessly, making it easy for him to flirt without really flirting, and charm without really…

It was a rare thing, to feel like himself, only smoother and better, and--  

Closing his eyes, he tried to rationalize, and get back to safer ground. 

_Leaving is good, a blessing in disguise.  _

It is. It had to be. 

No matter how she made him feel. Or rather, because of it.

"Well, I'm not going to pick just any random scarf, okay?"  

He refocused, again. 

"I keep clothes for a long time and I don't like to waste my meager resources. That means I have to really _love this scarf, Grissom."_

She sounded determined, and even a little prim. Actually, he sighed, she sounded cute. 

"They're both nice, Sara. You can't go wrong either way."  

When she continued to look at him askance, he deployed his most patient, persuasive tone--the one he knew would irritate her just enough to move the selection process along. "Would you like me to choose for you?"

She rolled her eyes, but didn't say no.

Tilting his head judiciously, he inspected the candidates. After a few minutes he pulled one from the display, a long piece of dark red cut-velvet overlaid onto a backing of very sheer red silk. The pattern, a pretty paisley full of swirls and curlicues, had caught his attention, as did the jaunty tasseled fringes at either end. 

He draped his choice around her neck before she could protest. 

"Did you know," he said slowly, fingering the luxurious material, "the production techniques used in making velvet have been traced back to Ancient Egypt? 2000 B.C., in fact." 

"I did not know that." 

The dutiful tone made him look up. Was she was being sarcastic?  He squinted. The glint of curiosity in her eyes seemed genuine, albeit teasing. Apparently he could be grateful once again for her enquiring mind, which always made him seem much more fascinating than he knew himself to be. 

"Velvet-making is a fairly labor-intensive process, but cut velvet is even more so. In order to create a pattern like this, textile workers use what's known as a 'burn-out' or devoré technique. They either cut--" He scissored his first two fingers near one of the paisley cut-outs. "--the pattern out around the uncut loops of velvet piles with an actual blade, or they apply a chemical compound that, when brushed onto the pattern, 'burns' it out of the rest of the cloth."

"Or a chemical, huh? Well, if it can eat away at velvet—"

"Not just any kind of velvet. Only one made of rayon fiber and backed by silk and/or acetate, like what you have here."

"So," she thought aloud, "these chemicals burn away the cellulose in the fabric, the rayon, in whatever pattern you want. Leaving the silk unharmed."  

He nodded. "Although the burn can easily spread outside of the lines, if the weaver isn't careful to apply just the right amount."

"It can also burn away the foundation," she said slowly, turning the velvet over to expose the silk.

He considered her for a moment, his voice a question mark.

"One presupposes the other."

"Yin." She raised one hand and then the other, as if balancing a scale. "And yang."  

Her smile floated in the air between them. After some time, he managed to remind himself of the matter at hand, and tugged one end of the scarf. She blinked.

"This is your recommendation then?"  

"It is," he replied, his eyes warm. "It suits you."

The scarf still graced her neck when she asked if he would mind some company on his walk back to his hotel.

*********

"How in the world did you score a room here, anyway?"

He seemed puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Grissom, this is a deluxe hotel--a boutique hotel, actually, in industry terms. Or in layman's terms, ka-ching!" 

Defenses weakened, he couldn't help but laugh out loud.  

She grinned.

"Hey, I know hotels, okay? I wrote a business plan for my folks' B&B when I was in high school, and I had to research all the different categories of lodging in order to show why a bed and breakfast was the right type of hotel concept for Tamales Bay."   

He was staring again. She loved it when he looked at her that way, like she was the key to some lock he had been trying to pick, capable of giving him access to something he really wanted.  _Even if the something he really wants are just some stats from a paper, or some other piece of randomness._

"According to the American Hotel & Lodging Association, a boutique hotel is defined by architectural style, number of rooms, intimacy of service, target market – early 20s to mid 50s, mid to upper income bracket, educated, technologically skilled…"

He smiled.  "I guess that sounds about right. I did get the recommendation for this place from my _Geektools newsletter."  _

She gave him a look. 

"That's the name, I swear. It's written by a bunch of engineers who got frustrated by the way they would lose track of the most useful 'tools' they'd found on the internet as people moved around, sites closed, and so on. So a few of them decided to create their own resource list for geeks—including a list of the most wired hotels--those with the best high-speed connections, data ports, that kind of thing."

"_Geektools_, huh?"   

"Yep."  

He could see her struggling to keep a straight face, but decided not to help her out.  "Yeah, this is the only Geektel in San Francisco, which means it comes highly recommended." 

Absurdly pleased by the burst of laughter that followed, he touched his fingers to her arm. Without really quite intending to, he found himself steering her through the understated Modernism of the teak-lined lobby and past the front desk. 

"Good afternoon, Mr. Grissom."

He turned. Gracious touches like these were one reason to stay at a hotel like The Lambourne, whose twenty rooms took the phrase 'boutique' to heart. Although he would have been loath to admit it, he rather appreciated the way its well-trained staff greeted all guests by name.

"Good afternoon, John." 

The concierge looked at the woman next to his guest and nodded courteously. The man's training pressed him, but something about the way the two people in front of him stood so close, and the way his guest's hand cupped the woman's elbow made him decide against asking her the usual 'meet and greet' questions. He did, however, bow to his profession on another point.

"Would you or your guest like anything sent up to your room?"

The concierge watched in some amusement as the older man seemed to jump slightly, as if the thought had not occurred to him. 

"Uh…"

"Oh no, no room service," the brunette laughed. "I want to see what kind of mini-bar the city of San Francisco is paying for." 

"You would," he responded dryly, grateful to have sidestepped the issue. _Of course we don't need anything sent up._ He was just going to offer her water or a soda and then say goodbye. It had been a long walk from Haight Street and the day was unseasonably warm. Besides, she should probably rehydrate and have a snack before heading back outside anyway, thin as she was. 

"Then, the mini-bar it is. Come on, I'm thirsty."

Her elbow slipped out of his grasp as she moved toward the elevator.  He could feel the concierge looking at him, but hurried after her without meeting the man's eyes. 

She tapped the up arrow and wheeled around, flashing one of those smiles. 

"What floor?"

"…Three."

After a little pas de deux with a couple exiting, they stepped in. She pressed three and settled herself next to him, her shoulder just touching his. Neither spoke as the car glided upward. Her stomach had begun to twist in on itself again; her mouth felt dry. When the doors opened and they began walking towards his room, she racked her brain for something that would keep things light and amusing. Maybe that would make it easier for him to say yes when the time came.  

"So, is this what I have to look forward to when I get to be a field supervisor like you? Being put up in posh hotels when I consult on cases?"

He cocked his head. "Maybe."

"Come on, how did you pull it off?"

Eyes mysterious, he said nothing. 

Soon,  they were at his door.  As he searched his pocket for his key card, she nudged his shoulder.  "Griss? Come on, tell me."

"So, tell me, what do you think the fall out will be from the cops having to arrest one of their own?

She sighed, knowing that this change of subject signaled he had no intention of answering her question. 

"Fallout for the SFPD, the lab, or for me personally?"

"All three."

"Well, the PD will get crucified in the press, with good reason.  I won't be talking to any reporters myself, but I'm sure some other people will, people who will know a lot of less about what actually happened, but who'll pretend to know a lot more."

The sensor lock beeped.  He stepped aside to allow her to enter the room first and closed the door behind them. 

She turned to face him. "The lab will get a little singed by the bad publicity, but at least Havers will be able to say 'Yeah, maybe we blew it at first, but eventually we got it right and caught the bad guy, even if he turned out to be a cop.'  He's slick enough to turn anything to his advantage, so I'm not too worried the lab's reputation will be seriously damaged."

"That's two out of three.  What about you?"

The shift in her body language would have been imperceptible to most, but he noticed, just like he noticed everything else about her. He took a step forward.

"Me? Who the hell knows?"  Her mouth made a crooked smile.  "My options aren't so hot.  I mean, half the lab thinks I'm some kind of traitor for working with you and telling the truth about that missing evidence, and the rest may give me credit for doing my job, but figure that my judgment may have been clouded by the torrid love affair we were supposedly having."  She laughed, but her heart wasn't in it.  "Not exactly how I expected to start my CSI career."

As she spoke, he had advanced until he now stood directly in front of her. 

"I'm sorry about that, Sara…I never meant to make things difficult for you here."  She nodded.  "As for the rumors about—"  He looked away, not wanting to even say the accusation aloud. "Just try to ignore them. Gossip is like fire. Cut off its oxygen and it dies."

She gave him a small smile. 

"My leaving should help in that regard. Without me here, what will there be to say about--" He nearly said 'us,' but caught himself in time.  "There'll be no grist for the rumor mill."

Her smile widened, wavering uncertainly as she bent her head. She studied the plush cream-colored carpet, afraid to continue, but more afraid to stop. When would be the right time?  _There is no right time. You have an opening. Take it. _ With her eyes still fixed on the floor, she took the leap.

"You know, with all the rumors, it's like we might as well go ahead and…have the affair."

As the last word left her mouth, the whole room collapsed until she was the only thing he could see.

"I mean, there'd be no fear of being found out, right? The idea's already out there. Plus, now there's no longer a case that could be…compromised, or anything."

She knew she should stop talking and look to see the effect of her words, but now that she had finally begun to say what had been on her mind for so long now, it seemed impossible to look him in the eyes.

"Sara, I…"  He exhaled slowly.  "I don't think that's a good idea."

He would have preferred that she not look up, but finally, she did. 

"What's not good about it, Grissom? It would just be you and me. We could just…be together."

"Except…it's never that simple."

"We can make it simple."  Her voice, soft and sweet, wrapped itself around him. "I won't—I won't expect anything more. We can just… I mean, I don't even know when I'll see you again."

The hand she raised to his face shook, but only until it made contact. "It can just be this one time, you know."

He stood still, letting his skin be warmed by her touch as his mind chased thoughts of what it would be like.  If she had asked, he might have told her: this is how he had imagined it. In the daylight, with the sun streaming through every window and every part of her illuminated with perfect clarity… No shadows, no hidden places, just her, lying next to him and never looking away. 

It hurt, this thing that first gripped his throat and now spread down his chest. It hurt, more than he ever thought it could.

His hand covered hers and very slowly, lowered it from his face.

"I don't…I don't really know what to say."

"Say yes."

She felt him grip her hand harder, pressing his palm into her flesh.

"I can't."

"But…why not? I promise won't make a big deal out of it. I promise."

The words were heavy on his tongue, but somehow, he spoke them. "That's just it, Sara. Neither one of us can make a promise like that. And once we open…that door, it can't be closed again."

The one time it would have been better to not anticipate his thoughts, and of course, she still did.

"Because--" She tried again. "Because…it wouldn't be just one time."

He let go of her hand and brushed his fingers along the border the red velvet made against her pale skin.  "I don't think it would."

"Is that so bad, though?'

He offered no answer, knowing there was none that she would understand. 

The silence lengthened, eventually giving her, she thought bitterly as her eyes began to sting, answer enough. 

"Right. Okay."  She took a step backward.  "Well, I, you know, I should go. You have to pack and everything, and I…I'm sure there's something I should be doing at the lab."

"Sara."

"You have a safe flight, and I'll…" She smiled stiffly. "…I guess I'll see you around."   Swallowing, she prayed that she sounded better than she felt.  "It's been great working with you…"  She swallowed again. "I've learned a lot."

His eyes almost seemed sad. "So have I."

Unsure of what he meant, she didn't dare ask. _Probably break my heart all over again anyway._

"Okay, then."  She stepped past him and walked swiftly to the door. Only after she had it open and stood over the threshold did she turn back.  "Bye."

Whirling around before he could see the first tear fall, she rushed down the hall, the carpet absorbing her footfalls so well she barely made a sound. 

He stood in the doorway, his back against the frame and watched her go. She had finally looked away. He had made the break, hadn't he?  

She was almost out of earshot when he called. 

"Hey, Sara?"  
  


She turned.  

"I race roaches with one of the FBI's lab guys. His wife's brother owns this hotel."

He saw an echo of her smile emerge, just for a moment. 

"The bug connection. I should have known." 

The quiet ring of the elevator announced its arrival.  Before she moved inside, their eyes met. Then she turned away, stepped inside and let the doors close behind her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She sat back, taking the pressure off her knees. Reaching up to her neck, she slid her fingers between the velvet and her skin. It fell in a heap, with one tasseled fringe splayed on top.  She lowered her hand to it and ever so gently, pushed it along the floor, farther and farther away until it lay somewhere behind her, where it could no longer be seen.

TBC….


End file.
